Tom said,
“Back home some fellas come through with han’bills—orange ones.
Says they need lots a people out here to work the crops.”
The young man laughed.
“They say they’s three hunderd thousan’ us folks here, an’ I bet ever’ dam’ fam’ly seen them han’bills.”
“Yeah, but if they don’ need folks, what’d they go to the trouble puttin’ them things out for?”
“Use your head, why don’cha?”
“Yeah, but I wanta know.”
“Look,” the young man said. “S’pose you got a job a work, an’ there’s jus’ one fella wants the job.
You got to pay ’im what he asts.
But s’pose they’s a hunderd men.” He put down his tool.
His eyes hardened and his voice sharpened. “S’pose they’s a hunderd men wants that job.
S’pose them men got kids, an’ them kids is hungry.
S’pose a lousy dime’ll buy a box a mush for them kids.
S’pose a nickel’ll buy at leas’ somepin for them kids.
An’ you got a hunderd men.
Jus’ offer ’em a nickel—why, they’ll kill each other fightin’ for that nickel.
Know what they was payin’, las’ job I had?
Fifteen cents an hour.
Ten hours for a dollar an’ a half, an’ ya can’t stay on the place.
Got to burn gasoline gettin’ there.” He was panting with anger, and his eyes blazed with hate.
“That’s why them han’bills was out.
You can print a hell of a lot of han’bills with what ya save payin’ fifteen cents an hour for fiel’ work.”
Tom said,
“That’s stinkin’.”
The young man laughed harshly.
“You stay out here a little while, an’ if you smell any roses, you come let me smell, too.”
“But they is work,” Tom insisted. “Christ Almighty, with all this stuff a-growin’: orchards, grapes, vegetables—I seen it.
They got to have men.
I seen all that stuff.”
A child cried in the tent beside the car.
The young man went into the tent and his voice came softly through the canvas.
Tom picked up the brace, fitted it in the slot of the valve, and ground away, his hand whipping back and forth.
The child’s crying stopped.
The young man came out and watched Tom.
“You can do her,” he said. “Damn good thing.
You’ll need to.”
“How ’bout what I said?” Tom resumed. “I seen all the stuff growin’.”
The young man squatted on his heels.
“I’ll tell ya,” he said quietly. “They’s a big son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in.
Takes nine men all the year roun’.” He paused impressively. “Takes three thousan’ men for two weeks when them peaches is ripe.
Got to have ’em or them peaches’ll rot.
So what do they do?
They send out han’bills all over hell.
They need three thousan’, an’ they get six thousan’.
They get them men for what they wanta pay.
If ya don’ wanta take what they pay, goddamn it, they’s a thousan’ men waitin’ for your job.
So ya pick, an’ ya pick, an’ then she’s done.
Whole part a the country’s peaches.
All ripe together.